


She Dances in Sunlight

by liacat



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Typical Canon Violence, ill tag more as the fic goes on, modernish ivalice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3170846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liacat/pseuds/liacat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Larsa decides he's tired of the stuffy palace life in Archades, and orchestrates a grand escape plan. Underneath the guise of a trading discussion with the Marquis of Ondore, he slips away into the bustling streets of modern Bhujerba... But the world around him is a lot more complicated than he originally thought. He gets caught up with street rats, sky pirates, a revolution, and a dancer named Penelo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grand Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Larsa escapes, sees Bhujerba, and gets a lot more excitement than he bargained for.

The sky looks so much bluer from this side of the window, Larsa thinks wryly, staring absentmindedly. A sharp rap on the desk next to his knuckles brings his attention back to his current lesson, much to his disappointment. His tutor, a severe woman that rather dauntingly looks like a Zu, glares sharply down at him.

“Shall I repeat the question, your highness?” she asks dryly.

“My sincerest apologies that made you believe that my fullest attention was not with you,” Larsa replies smoothly. “But there is no need.”

Professor Zu raises an eyebrow. “And the answer is…?”

Larsa remembers the questions well, even if he had been daydreaming. _Why did the Empire succeed in conquering Dalmasca?_ He’d gotten good at thinking of other things and hearing what people said to him at the same time. If it had been truly important, his full attention would have on the conversation at hand, but tedious history lessons that he had already read about on his own years ago are not one of them.

“The Dalmascans lost the war two years ago because they lacked sufficient manpower and adequate weaponry.” Larsa thinks of all the airships and aircars and airtanks that had been shipped off to Rabanastre, all of the bombs and guns and men. He wonders about the ones who didn’t return, and he feels a sense of protectiveness towards his people, a sense of disapproving irritation towards the savage Rabanastrans.  “The Empire had superior tactics and machinery, so threatening the city to surrender was easily done.”

Zu narrows her eyes. Larsa leans back in his chair, sensing a challenge rising in her, one he will easily meet. He’s been spoon-fed this talk since an early age. _The Empire is superior. Submit to the Empire and find true glory._

“However…?” his tutor presses for more. Uncomfortably, Larsa shifts in his plush chair, tapping his fingers on the table. Here is where the theory doesn’t make much sense.

“However,” he continues slowly, “the Rabanastrans still resist Archadian rule.”

Zu nods. “But it is only a matter of time before they accept our protection and come to adopt our ways. And then the Empire will flourish.”

“Yes,” Larsa says distantly, feeling his eyes slide out back towards the window and the sky. It doesn’t look nearly as blue as before, but rather the steely gray weather that Archadia often saw. Larsa wonders what the skies in Rabanastre look like. “Such flourishment as Ivalice has never seen.”

* * *

“A ship to Bhujerba?” Larsa asks his bodyguard, a bit surprised. Gabranth nods, his stony gaze concealed by his sunglasses. Larsa frowns, pleased but puzzled. “And to what do I owe this joyous opportunity?”

“His majesty believes it best if you take a tour of the city and become acquainted with both it and Marquis Ondore,” Gabranth rumbles monotonously. Larsa crosses his fingers, thoughts quickly racing over the possibilities and reasons for this seemingly innocent trip.

Larsa’s father was not wont to send his youngest son on any trip for any simple reason. Larsa's mind needn't wander far to come up with one potential reason. Making connections at such a young age, where most believed him to be a naïve and easily swayable fifteen year old, could prove beneficial in later years and a possible reason. The Marquis would prove a valuable friend if Larsa could manage to charm him, which he has no doubts about accomplishing. Vayne is not the only prince that can ooze charm like some sort of diplomatic Flan.

But that can’t be the only reason. His father loves him very much, of that Larsa is positive -- but house Solidor is known for its schemes and plans. Larsa is sure that there’s an ulterior motive lurking somewhere in there. Perhaps sniffing out treachery from the slippery Marquis? Or assuring his father that the mines sent out only the purest magicite to fuel the aircars and automatic spellcasters and guns? Larsa sighs, leaning back in his chair and observing his gloved hands, the papers on his desk to be used for studying, and finally the reflection of the sky outside on Gabranth’s sunglasses. The clouds distantly move, soft and unconcerned. How Larsa envies them of their freedom.

In that instant, the beginning of a scheme that could rival his father’s and brother’s begins to form in his mind. Oh, it would cause trouble and a grand hullabaloo, of that he is sure. It took all of his self-control not to allow a wicked grin to spread across his face.

Well, his father may want to use him for some ulterior motive, but Larsa is keen on using the trip for his own ideas.

“How soon do we leave, Gabranth?”

* * *

The ship is a thing of beauty and grace, sprawling across the port with a golden gleam shining where the weak sunlight hit. Larsa breathes in the air, shouldering his private bag higher, before stepping onto the boarding walkway. The metal clunks pleasantly beneath his boots, but the sound of guards saluting and cocking their guns as he walks by is not so pleasing to his ears. Larsa wishes they could be less… Less conspicuous and looming. The feeling of having his already small stature further enforced in his mind’s eye does not make him all that happy.

The inside of the ship is plush and… Decidely too red. It makes him feel as if he’s living in a stomach, or inside the mouth of some giant creature. His shudders his distaste away, brushing off a questioning glance from Gabranth. He doesn’t want to make his overly serious body guard too concerned about himself -- it would only make his plan harder to enact. He gives a small smile to Gabranth, hands hanging straight by his sides. Gabranth stares stonily at him for a small moment before inclining his head slightly, which Larsa recognizes as the man’s own form of acknowledgement. Larsa’s quite fond of the burly bodyguard, and for a second feels vaguely guilty about the consequences Gabranth is sure to face after Larsa completes his plan. But only for a second, and then the two are moving on to the interior of the ship.

Larsa spends the majority of the ride in his own room, sorting through papers detailing the trade and economy of Bhujerba. Most of the documents he’s already read, but Larsa thinks it wise to refresh his memories. It will be his first time to the city for a long while, and he’s a little unsure of himself. He specifically pays attention to the maps, careful to not spend any more time on them than any other document lest he should raise Gabranth’s suspicions. By the time he feels that he has sufficiently memorized the entire layout, a servant is knocking to bring in lunch.

Larsa thanks the servant kindly, hiding a smile at her surprised blush. It’s a pity nobility don’t treat servants with more etiquette when it warms the heart so pleasing others.

As Larsa begins his meal, he addresses Gabranth behind him. “How much longer till Bhujerba?” he inquires, making small talk. Larsa understands that his guard prefers using less words, but sometimes silence become too tedious even for him.

“Perhaps another several hours, your grace.”

“Several?” Larsa sighs, laying down his fork and lifting his wineglass, swirling it around. “I’m afraid I can’t bear the boredom. What am I to do? Critique the curtains?” He flourishes his hand, pointing out the hideous drapes in question.

Gabranth doesn’t smile, but he says seriously, “I could look for some duke or duchess on board for you to acquaint yourself with, if you so wish to relieve yourself of boredom, my liege.”

Larsa positively chokes on his wine, dreading the idea. Gracious, the hounds would be planning his marriage with some daughter or another within minutes, all the while making thinly veiled insults upon his family and heritage. Larsa would rather throw himself out the window of the ship, or shoot himself with Gabranth’s gun.

At Gabranth’s resigned look, Larsa laughs. “I’m perfectly fine here, Gabranth. You know, I actually _do_ find these curtains perfectly interesting.” He stands up to finger the red horrors. “Look at all of this fringe. Isn’t it…” Larsa searches for the word while Gabranth comes over to stare at the curtain as well. “Droll?” Larsa proposes.

“If the curtains do not suffice, your grace, than we can practice your hand-to-hand training,” Gabranth suggests, his lips not twitching an inch.

“I hope you jest, Gabranth,” Larsa says gloomily, peering up at the looming figure. It’s not that Larsa is _bad_ at fighting, but rather he doesn’t effortlessly perfect it like everything else, which can be frustrating. He works hard, though, to impress his brother and father.

Also, there’s the fact that Larsa abhors needless violence. He would much rather practice his white magick than hand-to-hand. Or even sword fighting. Who even fights with swords nowadays, anyways?

_A Solidor should always be prepared,_ Vayne had once told him. _A Solidor has every card up his sleeve, and even then a few more surprises._

Larsa hadn’t understood, at the time, but now he does. Vayne is always prepared for anything, always unflappable. It’s a point of awe for Larsa, a model for him to follow after, even as he crosses into adulthood. Larsa wishes he could be more like his brother. At the same time, Larsa feels it dangerous to be so perfect. There has to be at least one flaw somewhere, no matter how detestable the idea should be.

“Brothers are mysterious, are they not, Gabranth?” Larsa muses. Gabranth doesn’t answer, but the man is obviously uncomfortable. Larsa looks back and is startled to see neck tendons standing out on his neck. Gabranth takes a deep breath, as if to steady himself, before nodding sharply. “Yes, my lord.” Larsa stares at his bodyguard, too surprised to even think of propriety in this instant. Gabranth’s jaw tightens, and Larsa realizes that he must be embarrassed by his sudden loss of emotional neutrality. The younger quickly turns back to the window, observing the island growing gradually larger.

Larsa is positively _intrigued_.

There’s a mystery here, one that the loyal bodyguard will be reluctant to share. Larsa knows it’s none of his business, of course, but that can’t stop his insatiable curiosity. _Finally, a novelty in my life,_ Larsa thinks, wheels already turning in his head. He knows better to press the issue further, though, and instead says, “I think we shall hold off on practicing. My pride has still not quite recovered from the last time we sparred.”

Gabranth’s rumbling voice answers him stonily, as emotionless as before his slip-up. “Of course, lord Larsa,” is all he says.

_My wish is his pleasure,_ Larsa muses, almost bitterly. He looks past the curtains to the window that extends across the entire wall, staring into the sky. His heart tugs somewhere, anywhere besides this stifling ship and the idea of his every desire being fulfilled. _Where is the fun in that?_ Larsa wonders. _The adventure?_

A knock at the door interrupts his musings, and Larsa gives an inquiring glance to Gabranth. The bodyguard shrugs slightly before strolling over to the door and opening it, hand on his gun. In spills a nobleman traveling to Bhujerba on imperial business, his wife and daughter. Larsa smothers his groan to put on a smile; he recognizes that scheming glint in their eyes, and knows what’s in store for him: house alliances, marriage proposals, trading, and probably subtle jabs at his family history.

The trip to Bhujerba is proving very tedious indeed.  

* * *

Larsa can’t quite describe his relief when he feels the airship shuddering, signifying their arrival to Bhujerba. In the distance, Larsa can see the majestic city floating in the air, planes and airships soaring around it, the few aircars hovering around the airways cleverly built by Moogles. Larsa turns back to his guests, who had multiplied over the last several hours, and (gleefully) apologizes that he’s very sorry, but he must excuse himself to prepare for docking. The nobles practically fall over themselves to wish him good health before leaving, but first they must remind him of their eligible daughters.

Larsa slumps in a chair when the last one leaves. Gabranth makes no comment, but Larsa knows the solemn man is sympathetic to his plight. Finally, Larsa compels himself to change into something more fitting of meeting the Marquis, shoving more practical clothes into his bag for later. A servant soon comes by to tell them they’d docked.  

Larsa smoothes out his three piece suit dismally, shooting a look at Gabranth.

“Well, this is as good as it’s going to get, I’m afraid,” Larsa tells him. Gabranth doesn’t answer, merely opening the door for the young prince. Larsa sighs dramatically before slipping out into the hallway, his feet hardly making a sound on the plush, Dalmascan carpets.

As he enters the Aerodome of Bhujerba, he tries hard not to crane his neck to look at the people and the wares in there. The ceiling overhead looms, amplifying the sound of the crowd and the multitudes of voices. The Bhujerbans mill about, heading for far away cities, selling their wares to new passengers, or saying greetings to loved ones. They make wide berth for the incoming Archadians, Larsa notices, and a hush descends on those near them, their eyes glittering as they silently watch the pale foreigners. Larsa can’t help but frown slightly at the reaction; for sound allies, they are quite suspicious of the Archadians.

Gabranth gently ushers him to the entrance, and it’s difficult to restrain himself from eyeing all the wares and trinkets sold right outside the entrance. An aircar waits for the two, comfortably cool inside compared to the warmth of the Bhujerban air. Larsa idly wonders why the floating city is so humid when it floats so high up. The aircar ascends, people milling about on the ground level of the city becoming smaller. Different walkways trailing along the sides of buildings come to their level, a lane mostly reserved for taxis and aircars. Along these levels, people chat on the verandas and walkways, leaning against the railing carelessly; Larsa casually wonders what would happen if that railing were to break, allowing the citizens to spiral down into a messy death.

Suddenly, Larsa feels himself being thrown forward in his seat. The aircar swerves, nearly crashing into the next lane. He can hear the driver shouting in surprise, and Gabranth even gives a startled grunt. Within seconds, Larsa jumps eagerly out of the car to investigate, hopping onto the walkway next to the airlane. Gabranth makes a noise of protest, but follows.

In front of him, Larsa sees the driver on the side-platform arguing with a kid on an airscooter hovering next to it. His skin is dark as a nut, with white blonde hair, a fierce frown, and he argues energetically.

“I had the right away! What the heck are you thinking?” the boy asks crossly, rubbing his elbow. Larsa notes with some surprise his accent isn’t Bhujerban. It sounds more like… Larsa frowns as he tries to place it.

“The Marquis is expecting – “ the driver begins, but the blonde boy cuts him off irritably.

“To hell with the Marquis, if he can’t even expect his citizens to follow the damn traffic laws!” The boy huffs, revving his scooter’s engine. Gabranth has turned his attention to the boy, hand discreetly on his gun holster. Larsa glances casually around himself, heart quickening as he wonders if this is his chance. A few feet away, Larsa can see an alleyway with stairs leading down to the ground lanes, mostly designated for pedestrians. Slyly, he peeps back at Gabranth, who takes a step towards the still arguing boy.

“I think it’d be in your best interest to forget this and continue on your way,” Gabranth starts. Slowly, Larsa steps back, towards the mouth of the alley. It’s almost too good to be true when Gabranth doesn’t turn around. Fortunately, the foreign boy is either stupid enough or courageous enough to turn smartly towards Gabranth, continuing to argue. Larsa thanks the boy silently, and then slips away from Gabranth, the driver, the stranger, and his responsibilities.

Off he goes, quietly fleeing down the stairs. Once on the ground floor, he’s a bit out of breath, but he spots a public restroom for him to change into more suitable clothes. He takes out his earring with the tracking device in it, discarding it in the toilet to flush it away. He wishes he didn’t have to do that, and could instead dispel any tracking charms on it, but the damn thing had been warded in case he had been kidnapped. Well, Larsa thinks, amused. I suppose I have been. Except, I am my own kidnapper.

He goes out the bathroom window, just to make the trail harder for Gabranth to follow. He doesn’t wish for his adventure to be curtailed any sooner than it needs to be. Larsa stifles any guilt he feels, reasoning that he’s been deserving a break for a while now; even Gabranth had cautiously suggested so previously. Perhaps this isn’t really the break the taciturn guard had in mind, though. Oh, Larsa hopes he won’t get into too much trouble. Vayne would find it funny, actually, and would probably tease Gabranth for weeks.

Larsa glances over his shoulder, making sure no one pursued him. Seeing no agitated judge brandishing a gun and sunglasses behind him, Larsa feels his face break into a grin. Whistling, he sets about exploring the large city of Bhujerba.

The city is so alive. Larsa’s restriction to the upper grounds of Archades never prepared him for the intensity of a city market. The Bhujerbans haggle, laugh, elbow, argue, and barter everywhere he turns. He stops at one shop to observe Magicks, at another for weapons. All sorts of equipment line the walls of the dim shop, from tiny knives magicked to cut through any material like butter to impressive guns glimmering dangerously, their bullets charmed to cause silence. He stares in awe at the assortment displayed before him, an almost boyish sense of glee overwhelming him. As long as he doesn't have to use it, he reasons. They just look cool. He buys himself a dagger, just for safety’s sake, of course. When he hands the merchant a gold gil, he earns himself a strange look.

“I apologize most sincerely, is this not the correct amount?” Larsa asks politely. Maybe a little _too_ politely.

“No, no,” the merchant reassures him. “Perfect amount. Er, how will you be wanting your change, sir?”

Larsa frowns; has his demeanor already given his status away? Well, better to be a wealthy noble than a prince of the Empire, he supposes.

“Any way is fine,” he replies. The merchant smiles weakly, then goes about scraping enough gil together to hand back. He thanks Larsa for his patronage, and mentions that just maybe, he should try breaking his gold gils somewhere else, thank you very much. Larsa’s not too affronted by the man’s ire, and wanders back out into the stifling air, his hip now supporting the weight of his new dagger.

As he stops to peer at each of the stalls, he begins to notice someone following him. But when he turns to look, he sees no one. It can’t possibly be Gabranth. The man would simply charge through the crowd, terrifying the living daylights out of each citizen with his looming figure and pristine uniform, his stoic face all the more scary because Larsa understands the quiet simmering anger lingering beneath his sunglasses.

If not Gabranth, then who? And why?

Larsa’s beginning to understand that perhaps flaunting his money like that wasn’t the best idea. He hadn’t realized before that a gold gil was worth so much, and that the people here were unusually conscientious of his money. He saw the way the people in the shop casually slid their eyes towards his coin. Larsa feels his feet pick up a pace, and he turns an uneven corner. Best to stay within the crowd.

Of course, Larsa has been trained in self-defense. He rationalizes that he can take them in a fight. Larsa can feel a low hum in his chest, excitement coursing through his veins. A spar with Gabranth is totally different -- the damn guard overpowers Larsa within seconds, leaving him sore in both body and pride. If his shadow jumps him, Larsa is confident he can protect himself with harming the other party too much. Maybe, if he can prove his worth in battle, Gabranth and his father will allow him more freedoms.

He pushes past some people into an emptier alleyway, making up his mind. His hand is on his newly bought dagger, and he peers towards the light entrance. The entire alley seems to warp, focusing on that single place. He feels the hairs on his arm prick up, the back of his neck tingling with the faintest breeze. He’s so _aware_.

There’s a soft scrape from above him, and his head snaps back. He needs to shade his face, but all he can discern, when his eyes grow used to the light, is an old piece of rope. Larsa feels his body relax, and he straightens out of the defensive stance Gabranth had taught him. He can’t help but feel vaguely disappointed that he couldn’t test himself, he thinks, heading back to the market street, heart still thumping. _I suppose it’s for the better –_

A small body crash out of a window, barreling him to the ground. Larsa grunts in surprise, hand immediately going to his waist for his dagger. There’s a feral snarl from his attacker, and a boot slams down on his hand. Larsa gasps, feels the blood drain from his face. He hears cracking, and there’s pain shooting through his arm. But the pain  pushes through his muddled surprise and confusion: Larsa suddenly realizes how extremely foolish he was.

These people in Bhujerba haven’t been trained officially, and aren’t learned in the prim, proper fighting of Archadian nobility. These people are hungry and poor and vicious, and they don’t follow the code of chivalry he has grown up with. Larsa realizes he’ll have to fight dirty.

He bites the hand closest to his mouth, eliciting a growl from his perpetrator. They snatch it back, shifting their weight just enough to allow Larsa to reach for his dagger with his good hand. He sends a quick thank you to Gabranth for making him drill exercises with both hands until he was practically ambidextrous, then swings at the other. A boy around his age scuffles back, rags hanging off of his thin, starving body. Larsa’s struck by the image of poverty, and he stills, shocked at the filth this boy his own age lives in.

The boy snarls, hunching his body up, before pulling out his own weapon – a glass bottle that’s been broken. Larsa takes a step back as it’s swung. He retaliates by grabbing the boy’s arm and bringing his knee up into the solar plexus. The boy gasps, the air shunted from his lungs, before collapsing.

Easy, Larsa thinks dully. I guess I’ve proven myself. Proven myself against a starving boy my own age. _That could have been me._ The realization hits him harder than the pain in his hand, which he has cradled up to himself. He stares at the gasping boy, who’s glaring at him. Larsa takes a coin out of his pocket and kneels beside the boy.

“You could have just asked,” Larsa whispers sadly. The boy’s eyes flick to the coin, and then back to his face, and Larsa’s surprised by the venom in his eyes. The boy, holding his stomach and still gasping, snatches up the coin and scurries away. Larsa looks after him for a few seconds before standing back up to merge back into the marketplace.

“Wow, that was pretty impressive,” a voice says behind him. He swings around suddenly, hand tightening on his dagger. He recognizes the accent but not the person’s voice. They’re definitely not Archadian or Bhujerban. “Calm down!” comes the voice again. He can’t find whoever it is, but they’re close. “Is that anyway to thank the person who was going to help you?”

Larsa flicks his eyes around, searching. She – and it is most definitely a she from the high pitched voice – _has_ to be nearby. But he can’t find her anywhere.

“Depends on how trustworthy my would-be savior is to be,” he responds. “How am I supposed to thank her properly when she is so difficult to find?”

There’s a tinkling of laughter. “Whoops!” he hears. “Sorry, I forgot the magick was still up.” There’s the sizzling of magick, whispering over his skin like feathers. Then beside him there’s the outline of a person coming into view. A girl – a few years older than him, he judges – fades into view. Her skin is dark, made darker from days kissed by the sun, glowing like polished mahogany. Her pale blonde hair contrasts strongly to brown skin and the yellow of her tight t-shirt and blue overalls. She’s smiling broadly at him, gray-blue eyes blinking.

“Heya,” she says by way of greeting, her hand coming up to give a little wave. “I’m Penelo.”


	2. Penelo of Rabanastre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Larsa finds himself in the capable hands of a joker and a dancer.

 

Larsa blinks at her, surprised by her friendliness. “Greetings, Penelo,” he says slowly. “What a pleasure to meet you.” He bows slightly, offering his hand out to her to shake, which she declines.

Instead, she giggles, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Wow, talk about posh!” she snorts. Larsa flinches; is his disguise so easy to see through? He wonders. Somewhere in Archades, Vayne’s eyes are glittering with unspoken amusement. “What are you doing in a place like the bottom level of the Bhujerban market?” she asks coyly, raising a blonde eyebrow at him. “It's obvious a cute little noble like you doesn't belong here.” Larsa narrows his eyes at her tone, irked by her infantilization of him. He may be short, and as much as he detests the idea he may also be cute, but she doesn't have to treat like a child. He straightens his body and begins to walk away. He doesn’t have to deal with this degrading language.

“Hey!” she calls after him. He hears her light steps behind him, hardly making a whisper as she catches up to him. “You really think you can handle yourself alone here?”

He says stiffly over his shoulder, “I handled the boy back there just fine.”

Her tinkling laughter comes again. “Not according to what I saw.”

Larsa spins around in the middle of the street. A Bangaa nearly runs into him and spits out hissing curses at him. Penelo rolls her eyes, shouts something equally offensive back, and grabs Larsa’s arm, pulling him off to the side. “What do you mean?” he demands, not even noticing how he had stopped traffic. He thought he had won the fight. He was still alive, right?

Penelo doesn’t answer immediately. First, she pulls him towards a building. Neon lights flash above it, advertising it to be a bar. She pushes through the curtains that act as a door and waves at a few people familiarly. Larsa doesn’t think she’s old enough to be here, let alone him, but she calls out to the owner as if she knows him.

“I’ll be upstairs,” she says. The man behind the counter gives a nod of acknowledgment.

“Where are you taking me?” Larsa asks, equal parts curious and suspicious.

“Relax, I won’t steal your money,” she replies.

Larsa raises a thick brow. “That sounds like something a thief would say,” he mutters. Penelo hears him, and again she gives off that tinkle of laughter. It really is a very nice laugh, Larsa thinks. Nothing like the cold, polite giggles the ladies in court emit, so very much like emotionless robots.

“It is,” she responds cheerfully. Larsa smiles back, unable to help the grin spreading across his face. He’s beginning to feel at ease, no matter if she is a thief or not.

When they’re upstairs, she pushes him into a separate room, closing the door behind them. Computers line the wall everywhere, random magick crystals and books and licenses scattered beside daggers and guns. Penelo points to a comfortable yet worn looking chair, telling him to sit down. After he complies, she kneels in front of him.

“How did I lose?” he asks, curious about the answer.

Penelo smiles. “I never said you lost,” she replies. Her fingers find his injured hand, and he jerks back in surprise, snatching it away from her cool fingers. She... She's trying to touch his hand! “Relax,” she soothingly says. “I need to heal this.”

 _Penelo’s healing him?_ He thinks warily. She’s a perfect stranger, and her easy attitude on the streets makes him wonder about her class (which Larsa is a little ashamed of to even be considering. He always lived by the thought that he is no different than the common citizen, no matter how much Vayne laughs at his philosophies), who could very well be a thief eyeing his purse. However... She's been nothing but courteous and kind in the half hour or so that he's known her. And honestly, he thinks, peering into her cheerful gray eyes, how could anyone with a laugh as happy as hers be bad?

Larsa carefully considers before placing his arm in her hands. They’re cool and comforting against the throbbing of his pain. She tuts briefly before closing her eyes and beginning the spell. He watches her pale hair wave in the energy she’s summoning, and he sighs a bit in relief when a white, shimmery magick covers her hands and diminishes the aching thrum in his hand.

“What I meant,” she continues, directing soothing waves of comforting numbness into his hand. “Is that you didn’t handle the situation very well.”

Larsa tilts his head. She purses her lips, choosing her words carefully.

“Number one,” she says, looking at his hand rather than his face. “Only an idiot carries around that much money.”

“How did you -- ?” He begins, wondering how on Ivalice she knew. Had she been following him the entire time?

“Number two,” she cuts him off, lips quirking in a knowing smirk. “Only an _idiot_ goes into an alleyway when they’re being followed.” Larsa sheepishly shrugs at her, to which she merely rolls her eyes. “And number three, you spat on his honor when you gave him the money like that.”

“But I was under the impression he desired my money?” Larsa interjects quickly – honestly, he had been nice, right? Penelo finishes healing his hand, and she gently places it in his lap. He flexes it, and is impressed by her magick skills. There’s no pain left, only a little stiffness that doesn’t even rival an afternoon of signing documents.

“Listen,” begins Penelo softly, still staring at his hand. Larsa watches her carefully. Her cheerful expression is now somber, her eyes grave. “It’s different. He needed to steal it. He knows it’s wrong, and he’s probably ashamed of having to resort to thievery to survive, but he survived on his _own_ strength.” She sounds as if she’s well acquainted with the feeling. Larsa feels his heart ache in sympathy, at her voice suddenly becoming small and weary. “When he lost, he expected you to walk away and let him heal his wounds.”

“I did,” Larsa interrupts, puzzled. He doesn’t understand where he went wrong. Penelo shakes her head at him.

“No, you didn’t,” she tells him gently. “You gave him the money he’d failed to steal with his own power.” Here, her gray eyes flick up to him, eyebrows tilted slightly with sadness and pity.

Larsa sucks his breath in. No one’s ever looked at him like that. Every single face in his life from the day he was born had always been smooth, like a porcelain doll, with every word and expression dictated by a strict court rule. Even his own family had kept distinctly cool masks around him and taught him to do the same. The emotion in her face, therefore, punches him in the heart like one of Gabranth’s well-aimed blows in a sparring match. Larsa’s so shocked he nearly misses her next words: “You _pitied_ him.”

At her words, he comes to his senses and sits back, thoroughly confused. The boy had wanted money, so didn’t Larsa do the right thing by giving it to him? Under Penelo’s watchful eyes, Larsa suddenly feels stupid. Larsa despises the feeling of inadequacy, so he’s determined to understand this.

He flexes his hand carefully. Had he ever wanted something so much, something that someone else had? Well, his every whim and desire is catered to… Larsa frowns, pondering the possibilities… And then his frown softens, as he realizes what Penelo’s trying to tell him.

“I think I understand,” he says softly.

“Oh?” Penelo asks. Her eyes develop a teasing glint, which Larsa is suddenly wary of. “Has our rich-boy had a similar experience?” She obviously doesn’t believe him, but her teasing tone is not insulting.

“Well, not with money, no,” he says, easily brushing aside her taunt. Now that he's accustomed to her teasing, he's no longer angered. Frankly, he finds her refreshing compared to the court nobles. No thinly veiled compliments disguising insults. “But…” he can’t believe he’s about to tell her this, but something about the openness of her grey eyes and the affection in her smile prompts him. “My father’s approval is difficult to acquire, especially with my elder brother above me.”

Penelo’s face is gentle. She takes his hand again, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. Larsa’s surprised by the intimate contact, jumping a little. But she merely smiles at him – a genuine smile, so sweet and open that Larsa just about loses his breath.

“I see that rich-boy is human after all,” she teases him. Larsa politely laughs, still a little breathless. She lets go of his hand, his skin suddenly cold, and Larsa is oddly relieved, though he doesn’t particularly know why. He’s held dozens of noble woman’s hands and kissed their knuckles, had his hand held by hundreds of nobles as they try to curry favor. He doesn’t understand how this situation is any different.

She stands up quickly, now frowning. “What are you even doing here?” she asks, moving onto a stickier topic. Larsa shrugs haphazardly, quickly running through a list of excuses.

“My home life is...” he trails off, unsure of how to describe further. _I'm a prince of an empire that conquered your nation_ is probably not what she wants to hear. _I'm the younger brother of Vayne, who is currently in charge of Rabanastre_ is also not a plausible excuse. The longer he hesitates, the more sad Penelo looks. Larsa quickly turns his face away and taps his fingers on the chair, wondering if she'll pick up on the body language. Maybe she'll interpret it in a helpful way. _Thank you, Vayne, for helping me read people,_ he thinks, sending a silent and somewhat guilty thanks to his brother.

“I understand,” she says softly. “Sometimes, it's easier to be away from the pain.” She puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I'll keep you safe for as long as you need.”

Larsa almost feels guiltier for his small lie, even though he hadn't said a word. Is it his fault if she interpreted his calculated expressions and inferred a situation that never happened, a situation that Larsa had (kind of) manipulated her into thinking? Well, when he puts it that way... Before he can ponder it further, however, someone barges into the room.

“Penelo!” a loud, thick-accented voice complains. Larsa’s skin prickles with recognition. “Where the hell have you’ve been? I’ve been looking everywhere – huh?”

Penelo sighs deeply, rolling her eyes. Larsa peers over his shoulder – and his guess is correct. It’s the stupid boy from earlier, the one who had almost hit Larsa’s limo. He’s just as dark as Penelo, his dark gray shirt daringly unbuttoned to his abdomen, tucked into loose, low-hanging black pants and boots. His eyes widen -- a pleasant, cinnamon brown -- then flick to Penelo.

“Uh,” he begins. “Pen, who’s this puff?”

Penelo coughs, cheeks darkening slightly as she glares at the other boy. “Vaan, don’t be rude to my guest!”

“Oooh,” Vaan says, crossing his arms. “Your guest. Riiiight. So you _didn’t_ kidnap him?”

Penelo blushes even more, her skin flushing even darker. “I did _not --!_ Vaan, not everyone is as _boorish_ as you!”

“Whoa!” Vaan holds up his hands. “Let’s not resort to big words now!”

Penelo makes a low shriek in the back of her throat, pinching her hooked nose in exasperation. Larsa has to fight to hold back his smirk. Vaan finally turns to him, narrowing his cinnamon eyes. “Alright, so who is he then?” he questions. “Some pretentious poet sponsored by the Marquis’ wife? He was funny at least. Or is he like the last one you picked up –“ Penelo makes a warning noise in her throat, but Vaan plunges ahead, ignoring her. “What was he again? What did he say he did?” Vaan pretends to consider, avoiding Penelo's death glare. “Oh, yeah, he said he was a _model.”_ Vaan purses his lips and flutters his eyelashes, and Penelo crosses her arms in an attempt to not hit him.

“Some rich idiot wandering the bottom level of the Bhujerban market with a fat purse,” Penelo says hurriedly, a teeny bit scathing, glaring daggers at the boy. Vaan sputters.

“What --?” He chortles. “ _You_? It’s amazing your throat isn’t cut!”

Penelo tinkles along with his sputtering chuckles, her anger already faded away. “Surprisingly, he can hold his own. Got his hand stepped on, though.”

Larsa quickly shoves aforementioned hand into his jeans. Vaan whistles.

“Not bad…” he trails off, raising a pale eyebrow in question. Larsa realizes his name is being asked. He sputters out “La- Lamont!” in a panic, then mentally kicks himself for the flawed delivery of his lie. If Penelo and Vaan notice it, they say nothing.

“Lamont, huh?” Vaan says casually, crossing his arms and sidling nearer to Larsa. He’s suddenly aware of how tall the other boy his, of the muscles beneath the worn shirt. There’s a scar on his right hand, trailing up his sleeve. Beside Larsa, Penelo shifts a bit, angling her body in a more protective manner, hand on Larsa’s shoulder. “Archadian?” the blonde boy inquires, a bit too friendly.

Larsa looks at Penelo. Her grip tightens, and she gives Vaan a warning glare. “Yes, I am,” Larsa replies strongly. He stares up at Vaan defiantly, refusing to back down. The taller boy eyes him carefully, his face serious. Then his expression relaxes, and he claps a hand to his other shoulder, causing Larsa to wince.

“As long as you’re not here to, you know, terrorize the locals, then we’re all cool.” _Terrorize the locals?_ Larsa repeats in his head, shocked. Why on Ivalice would he do such a thing? Vaan forges ahead while Penelo relaxes, slipping her hand off of him. Larsa’s shoulder is cool where her hand used to be. “You seem like a nice guy, Lamont. A bit naïve, but sweet.”

“Erm,” Larsa says. “Sorry?” _Sweet?_ He thinks. _Sounds like something Vayne would call me…_

Vaan laughs loudly. “Sorry he says!” Penelo grins with Vaan. “Nah, that’s good.” Vaan rubs the back of his neck, sidling easyily over to Penelo to casually wrap an arm around her shoulder. She gives him a hug, kissing him on the cheek before moving over to a coffee pot hidden among the computers to make something to drink. Larsa is shocked by the casual affection. “It’s very good,” Vaan continues, watching after Penelo, his smile small and sad. “Not many people exist with your innocence, Lamont. Count your blessings.”

Larsa’s almost moved by what Vaan says. _Count your blessings._ Larsa had never really stopped to think about his place in the world, and how many things he does have. He only ever thinks of what he doesn’t have. He defines himself by the things he isn’t, and not what he is.

 _I want freedom, and the chance to get away from my life,_ he thinks. _But how many people want_ my _place?_

The thought is sobering, and Larsa feels a bit guilty lying to these two. He watches them, the two dark Rabanastrans, with glowing skin and sparkling eyes. They’ve obviously faced a lot of grief and loss, yet their smiles are just as vibrant as anyone in Archades, if not more so. A warm feeling spreads through his chest. Larsa recognizes it as respects.

There’s a pinging sound from Vaan’s wrist. The two stop joking while Vaan groans. “Oh, balls,” he mutters. Penelo smirks knowingly, leather covered hands on hip. Larsa watches with keen interest, wondering what could make Vaan fidget so.

Vaan presses a button on his cuff, which pulls up a holoscreen. An extremely handsome man glares at Vaan from it, mouth twisted up in a dashing frown. His features are perfectly even, his skin a glowing tan. His brown hair is slicked back artfully, and golden hoops line his ears. He looks positively… _Swashbuckling._

“Vaan,” he begins, his voice a lolling drawl. Recognition punches Larsa in the gut, and he stares at the man, for he has an accent of Archadian nobility – yet Larsa does not know who he is and has never seen him at court. “We were supposed to convene an hour ago at the Aerodome. Where, in the name of Ifrit’s beautiful flaming ass, are you?” Penelo chuckles a bit at this. The man’s glittering brown eyes flick towards her at the sound of her chuckle. “And Penelo. I always thought you were the responsible one, and yet here you are enabling Vaan with his....” The man hesitates, his pleasantly deep voice rolling to a halt as he eyes the both of them with distaste. “ _Shenanigans.”_

“I’m _not_ enabling him!” Penelo protests, shoving Vaan aside to glare at the screen. “ I just…” she glances at Larsa, lips pursed. At his wide-eyed gaze, she gives a small smile. “Got distracted?”

The man groans on the other end. “Penelo, if I find out you adopted another… _chocobo_ or something, I swear by King Wraithwall’s beard, I will…” he trails off, his voice growlingly low as he mutters profanities under his breath. Penelo’s indignant glare matches the handsome man’s, until finally he gives a disgusted noise. “Just… Hurry up, will you?” he finally continues, waving his hand at the screen. His fingers drip with jewelry and precious gems. “Fran and I are getting tired of waiting for you, and there’s only so much small talk Basch can handle before going ballistic.” He pauses, thinking. “To be perfectly honest, there’s only so much small talk _I_ can handle before I find my hands unconsciously fondling my gun. But that’s a different story.” The man pauses, his eyes narrowing. “And that is _not_ a euphemism.”

Vaan chokes, a most ungodly sounding laugh coming out until Penelo punches him. The man just rolls his eyes before winking out of existence. Larsa wonders if he was supposed to see any of that, and judging from the now mortified expression on Vaan’s face and the sheepish one on Penelo’s, he wasn’t.

Vaan turns to Penelo, whispering under his breath unsuccessfully, “What do we do with him?”

Penelo observes Larsa, her gray eyes distant as she ponders. “We take him with us.”

Vaan laughs brazenly. “Balthier will _love_ that. I’m sure he’ll shoot Lamont if Fran doesn’t wring his neck first.”

Penelo shoves Vaan angrily. “Shut up!” she orders, glancing worriedly at Larsa, as if she’s afraid. Larsa’s actually amused by the whole spectacle. He’s always been the good son, the one who dutifully follows orders and meekly observes. Being the one to cause trouble is refreshing.

Penelo wanders over to him, grabbing his shoulders and gripping them tightly. “Lamont,” she says earnestly. “I will _not_ let them hurt you. I promise you.”

Larsa stares back, searching her face. He’s not particularly worried about being hurt. If he needs to, he can protect himself with some self-defense Gabranth had taught him, or drop his title and promise a grand lump of money in return for his safety. But Penelo promising to protect him is… Touching. Her gray gaze, so open and truthful, makes his chest warm. He’s not used to people like Vaan and Penelo, who are so unlike the snide nobility back home, with the secrets, the currying for favor, the heavily veiled insults. They're so... Pure.

“I believe you, Penelo,” Larsa says warmly, gripping one of her hands. “And I thank you.”

Her wan smile in answer makes his heart putter along. Her hand tugs him forward, and they slip out of the room and follow Vaan, his blonde hair flouncing as he quietly traipses down the steps. Penelo moves just as quietly, just as gracefully, and Larsa hopes he isn’t making too much noise. His poise may be stiff and regal, but he was never too worried about being quiet, before. Just having good posture. He quickly tumbles after the two, hand firmly grasped by Penelo.

They merge back out onto the busy bottom layer of Bhujerba, filing into the crowd with ease. Vaan casually loops and arm around Penelo’s shoulders and she leans into him, slipping her hand into his back pocket. They look like a casual couple enjoying the nice day and strolling through the streets, but Vaan’s eyes scan the people coldly and Penelo’s grip on Larsa is vice-like. Intrigued, Larsa wonders what they could be so wary of, of what they’re hiding from. Every action he’s seen from them so far has positively screamed _fugitive!_ But if they’re on the run, why bother helping him at all? Yet another mystery added to the growing list. Larsa is delighted.

Eventually, the aerodome looms in front of them. It towers over the city, having grown from a small airship port in ancient days to a behemoth of a station, stories tall with airships crawling across its multitudes of floors. Its famous glittering roof, made completely of used magicite, twinkles in the sun, like a giant, blue eye. On its sides, magicite fueled HoloScreens display actors promoting products and current popular shows, while news casters talk about the weather in Bhujerba.

One HoloScreen shows a newscaster, her face serious as she describes the situation in Rabanastre. “Unemployment continues to rise,” her tinny voice explains. “Several riots have broken out recently, injuring Imperial Police. Refugees from the desert continue to filter into Low-Town, fleeing the desert attacks...” Her voice fades as they pass the screen. Larsa ponders everything he heard, and some things just don't match up. Violence in the desert? Unrest among the civilians? But shouldn't the Rabanastrans be happy? After all, Archades is bringing modern technology and such to the city. He shakes his head, clearing his confusion. Penelo gives him a concerned look, but he smiles it away. She grins back, then tips her head to the aerodome.

People stream in and out of the giant archways serving as doors, some lingering to chat and others selling wares and tourist nonsense. Larsa notices one man sidle up close to Vaan, casually looking off in different direction while his hand brushes the back of the boys pants.

Faster than Larsa can follow with his eyes, Vaan had the man's probing hand in a death grip, twisting it hard enough to make the man whimper. With one arm still around Penelo, who's watching without any interest, gray eyes lazily sweeping over the man, Vaan begins to address the would-be thief.

“Hey there,” Vaan says pleasantly. The man hisses, struggling to free his arm, but Vaan's grip only squeezes tighter. “If you wanna pick my pocket, you'll have to be better. Do it faster next time, ok?” He releases the man's grip, who immediately disappears into the people around them. Hardly anyone had noticed the little incident, and the three of them continue on as if nothing had happened.

Larsa's a little impressed. Vaan had seemed a bumbling idiot compared to Penelo, willing to argue with Gabranth (By the gods, Larsa would rather face an army of suitors than anger Gabranth), and his casual way of speaking is misleading. Larsa realizes he had judged him too hastily; when faced with first Larsa, a complete stranger, and then the pickpocket, Vaan had kept his cool both times and made instantaneous and rational decisions. Vaan even gives a casual nod at the guide standing in the entry way of the aerodome.

Penelo and Vaan herd Larsa over to a corner of the qerodome, past multitudes of people and little foods shops and ticket machines. They slip into a room that says _Private._ Larsa's used to such private rooms and VIP lounges, of course, but he hadn't expected two Rabanastrans to have extravagant accommodations like this.

The man waiting for them inside, however, is another matter.

The monitor through which Vaan and Penelo had spoken to him before did the man no justice. He just exudes charm and charisma, from the tips of his short, slicked back hair down to the toes of his shiny, leather boots. He's dressed in the most artful display of snappy attire, adorned in a Rabanastran embroidered vest, a well-fitted white shirt and black tie, and tight black pants. He looks like a well dressed merchant, but hints of a much more daring man twinkle in the earrings and rings he wears – and the way his eyes roll lazily over Larsa, much like a sleepy Coeurl. Larsa shivers.

“Oh?” the stranger asks, his rich voice rolling over them. “What have we here?”

“Balthier!” Penelo's hand has found its way to Larsa's shoulder, and she grips him so tightly her knuckles are white. She prods him forward until Vaan is standing behind them; Larsa feels rather like a piece of meat being inspected. Nothing new, of course. Much like any other day in court life.

“This is Lamont. I found him picking a fight with some Bhujerban street rat,” Penelo explains quickly. Balthier tilts his head, hands on hips.

“Is that so?” the man named Balthier drawls. “This  _is_ a surprise. No wonder you were late.”

“Sorry about that,” Vaan helpfully offers from behind them. He doesn't sound particularly apologetic, though.

Balthier gives a deep frown, bringing one hand up to rub his temple. “Penelo, what were you  _thinking?”_ he asks. Penelo flushes, staring at the ground. “You don't even know who he is! You understand that he's going to cause difficulties, right?”

“Please do not blame Penelo,” Larsa interrupts. Balthier's eyes snap back towards his face, an odd expression flitting across his features. Larsa ignores the intent stare and continues. “I requested her aid and she obliged, much to my indefinite gratitude. You should place the blame instead upon me, I implore you. Do not be angry at her simply because she helped me in a moment of kindness.” Larsa bows his head, not looking at anyone in the room. Balthier is quiet for a long minute.

“Lamont, you said?” the older man says eventually, his voice very quiet. Larsa swallows.

“Er, yes.”

“What are you doing in Bhujerba, tiny ser?” Larsa can hear the shiny leather shoes clicking on the floor, walking over till they're in Larsa's line of sight. “Do you not have a rich life, full of plush comforts and wonderful servants and giggling girls and all that nonsense awaiting your return?”

Larsa tilts his head to smile benignly at Balthier. “Did you not have these things of nonsense, as well, when you lived in Archades?” he questions innocently. If Balthier wants to play this game, Larsa's willing to oblige. He obviously has the accent of a wealthy Archadian. Larsa would, if he were a betting man, stake his inheritance that Balthier is more than a swashbuckling pilot. That accent is almost most certainly one of an Archadian of noble birth – very noble birth. In fact, the more Larsa stares at the handsome man's features, the more Larsa feels as if he's met Balthier.

Balthier's expression twists into a wry grin at Larsa's sweet words. “Watch out, the little noble has played the game!” Balthier chuckles lightly, the tension flowing out of the situation. Penelo's hand loosens on Larsa's shoulder, and she joins in as well. “Let me guess,” Balthier says, walking over to a table to pour some wine from the cooler. “You got bored and ran away from all the tutoring, the dances, the incessant power games and politicking and gods, the  _insulting.”_ Balthier shakes his head, raising an eyebrow at Larsa. “Archadians have a way with sweetly worded poison, do they not?”

Larsa smiles. “They do indeed.”

“Vaan, Fran and Basch are in the docking area with our cargo if you want to help them carry it aboard,” Balthier tells the boy. Vaan makes a loud and slightly annoying sound of protest.

“You're just trying to get rid of me!” he accuses.

Balthier gives him a look, one that obviously says _of_ course, then waves a hand, shooing him. “I hired you for your muscles, Vaan, not your mouth. Go help Basch and Fran.” The blond boy leaves, grumbling, and Penelo, Larsa, and Balthier are alone. The other man takes a long sip of his wine, calmly observing Larsa.

“Penelo, last week it was a tiny wyvern shooting flames, this week it's an equally tiny Archadian noble spewing silver-tongued excuses,” Balthier sighs, giving her a long look. Penelo fidgets, rubbing one arm and glancing at Larsa quickly, then away.

“I couldn't just leave him alone!” she protests. “If he can't go home, then he would have just been wandering around the streets of Bhujerba. He would have gotten mugged again – at the very least!”

“Penelo, while your compassion is laudable and I adore it, this is _extremely_ inconvenient timing,” Balthier groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “We aren't doing work where we can babysit some noble – “

“Balthier!” Penelo admonishes him sharply. Larsa keeps his face carefully trained into a pleasant smile to avoid breaking out into a grin as he sees Balthier's face melts into one of familiar weariness. “Don't talk about Lamont as if he isn't here! And besides, he's more than old enough to help.” She gives him a quick glance from the side of her eyes, gray eyes twinkling. “ _And_ he can certainly handle himself in combat.”

Balthier throws his hands up in the air. “I pick my battles wisely,” Balthier dramatically says to no one in particular. “And I can tell this is a lost cause.” He straightens his cuffs, fixing his haughty gaze upon Larsa. “Fine, bring the little noble along. Maybe we can return him for ransom after we're done dropping off our cargo.”

Penelo grins widely, her aggressiveness gone in an instant. Larsa's pleased as well; this adventure is quickly becoming a much larger and much more complicated one than he originally planned on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry it took me 7 months to update. School kicked my butt and I haven't been feeling well. I also don't want to half-ass a chapter for you guys. I'm always nervous posting fics, and I like to write several chapters ahead to make sure events line up properly with the right foreshadowing and such. However, I decided that this fic will be fun, and I'll write whatever the hell I want. 
> 
> Thanks for the lovely comments on the first chapter though!
> 
> PS Balthier is so hard to write.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. This is sort of like a super modern day Ivalice... So Gabranth is carrying a gun and wearing a suit and sunglasses instead of his (decidedly sexy but honking huge) suit of armor. Of course, a lot of the elements remain the same! I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's more contemporary? Also, as a note, Larsa has been aged up to, like, 16 -- just for my comfort's sake. Vaan and Penelo are 17/18-ish. 
> 
> Anyways. It's a damn shame that the Penelo/Larsa tag hasn't updated in a year. A damn shame. I plan to rectify this (albeit slowly... I'm still working on the second chapter.) 
> 
> Yeah. Peace out.


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